


weave me a forgiving sea

by mariie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1980s, Fatalism, M/M, Politics, chunnel of love, cranky old men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 15:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3254627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariie/pseuds/mariie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>saint-malo, 1986. there's someone at the door, and france just wants to finish his book.</p>
            </blockquote>





	weave me a forgiving sea

The front door swung open wildly, and silhouetted in a flash of lightning, wind and rain was a man, dressed in a coat and army boots, hair blown out madly around his head, eyes angry.

"Why the fuck," he shouted, turning to France, who was sitting in front of the fire and reading a book, "Are you in fucking Brittany?"

France shut his book ( _Jacques le fataliste et son maître_ , which he hadn't read in years), and turned to him. "I was hoping for some peace and quiet, darling," he said. He sighed more heavily than the moment called for, although a small part of him that wasn't horribly annoyed at the intrusion really did feel that it was romantic.

"Well, your boss sent me to find you." England, the windswept madman, sat down on the chair opposite France's and began to take off his boots and coat. After the ordeal, he leaned back, exhausted by the wind.

"I highly doubt that. He knows exactly where I am." He looked over at England. "There's a kettle on the fire, and tea in the cupboard if you want some. You look as though you could use it."

England scoffed. "I know where the kettle is. And I'm a guest, you could stand to be more polite. Unbelievable." He stood, though, to go find tea and a mug. France watched him out of the corner of his eye, half dripping wet, wool socks on the stone floor of the kitchen, as he rummaged through the cupboard until he found what he deemed to be an acceptable black tea. He scooped it generously into an infuser, setting it roughly into a mug emblazoned with Barbapapa's smiling pink candy face.

He stalked over to the fire and grabbed the kettle with a dishtowel hung by the fire to dry, pouring the steaming water into the cup. Then, satisfied by the routine, he sunk down once again into the worn chair across from France's.

"What are you doing here? I don't recall inviting you, as stimulating as your company can be." France wanted to punch him, really, but the spot by the fire was so warm.

"I told you, I was—" France cut him off.

"You can't possibly expect me to believe that. He's sent government boys before, there's no reason for you to be here."

"Maybe I just wanted to pay a visit. It's polite, after all. We're neighbors." England took a sip of his slowly steeping tea. 

"You missed me," France said, pointedly not smiling, though he wanted to, because he was definitely about to win this round.

England didn't respond for a long moment, instead choosing to stare at his mug of tea, the dark liquid inside. "That's ridiculous," he said, "But you could have written."

"I didn't know you cared," France said. "I thought I would take some time off. Can you please tell me why you're here? I don't think it's too much to ask."

England reached around to the back of his chair where his coat hung. He pulled out a folder from somewhere in the creases of the massive trench coat. "This," he said, handing it over to France, "is why I'm here."

France opened it carefully, afraid it was damaged by the rain. He could see, out the window, the vague shadow of England's stupid looking blue car. He scanned the documents inside it, along with the preliminary plans drawn up and thought carefully before speaking. "This is actually not a bad idea," he said.

"I'm glad you feel that way," England said. "Because it's already been signed off on."

"No one asked me?" France looked hurt and shocked. That was just rude, really.

"You weren't there. It didn't matter. It's all privately funded, and I knew you would be in favor of it. You always like large, overly complicated projects like this."

"Well, I was in favor of this sort of thing back in the 1800s, you know."

"They don't know abut that--our bosses, that is. Really, I was pleased they found something to agree on." England had drained the mug and was staring gloomily at the leaves that had fallen out of the infuser and into the bottom of the mug. "It's been difficult, you know. With the, ah, Falklands and everything. Since you couldn't pick a damn side." There was an odd, out of place note of fondness in his voice.

"Well, she's quite the tiger. Your boss, I mean. Very much loves the free market." He didn't say anything about the damn Falklands. It wasn't something he was interested in fighting about. Not right now. The fire was warm.

England sniffed. "There's nothing wrong with—" he stopped himself. "I apologize," he said. "I had come here to apologize. This seemed like a good plan, and though it's already in the works, I don't see anything wrong with getting your final say on it."

"Obviously," France said, then had to take a moment to light a cigarette for the express purpose of annoying England, because the whole thing was getting a little sappy, "Obviously I approve of all of this." He looked out at the car again, still blue, still ugly, and still being rained on. "Paris has been too much for me lately," he admitted.

England leaned almost imperceptibly closer. "I've been hiding out in the country myself," he admitted. "But if you tell anyone I'll gut you like a fish."

"It is so like you," said France, "to go to hide away in your hole like a rat but to still insist upon having all the modern amenities with you when you are away. Still such a child."

"At least I'm not in goddamn Brittany." England was fidgety tonight, and France idly wondered if he would be allowed to have him in his bed, or if England was planning on leaving. It wasn't as though it mattered, of course, but the night was very cold.

France shrugged and motioned vaguely with his cigarette. England coughed loudly to make a point. "You liar, I know you like Bretagne," France said. "The climate reminds you of home. You told me when you were drunk at that party in '73."

"I said nothing of the sort. Brittany is miserable and self-involved, just like you. Especially when you get in these moods and run off to the ocean."

England was absolutely the last person who should talk about running off to the ocean in times of distress. France snorted, which he knew would be absolutely meaner than saying anything. 

England narrowed his eyes. "You shut your mouth. I'm trying to help you."

France exhaled the last drag on the cigarette and put it out in the ashtray perched on the arm of the chair. He took the mug out of England's hand, where he was gripping it too tightly, and set in on the mantle of the fireplace. He kissed him on the mouth, and not in a nice way. "I'm not happy with how you've been treating people lately," he said, pulling away after a long moment.

"You're never happy with how I treat anyone," England pointed out, which was a fair point. There was no point, after all, in changing the status quo. It was the status quo for a reason, wasn't it?

"I know you're scared," said France, and began kissing him again, moving them toward the couch situated to the left of the fire. England stopped him halfway.

"Don't tell me I'm scared, you can't tell me that. What could possibly make you think I would want you to say that?" He sounded so young again and indignant that France almost laughed.

France didn't say what he was thinking, which was that he was scared too, of time passing, and of the future, which right now didn't feel exciting at all. Just dim. "I didn't think you would want me to say it," he said instead, and was extremely irritated when England bit him on purpose.

"You can't do that," he said. "It's like kissing an overenthusiastic rabbit," he said.

"I don't need  _pointers_ from you, I know what I'm doing."

"If you're going to bite me again, darling, I don't think I can see you any longer. It's really not for me." They were still stopped in the middle of the room, all the fight gone out of both of them. "At least move to the couch," said France, because he knew from experience that the stone floor was really hard.

"The bed," said England, and France was secretly pleased, though he sighed. 

"You're so demanding." he said. He steered them both (despite his protests, England liked to be steered, on occasion) towards the bedroom, which was really the only other room in the tiny stone house, and they both tried to pretend they couldn't see their breath in the air. Making another fire felt like an enormous amount of effort. France hadn't planned on using the bed, rather on staying up all night with really strong tea and his books, many of which would have been genuine collector's items were it not for the water damage or spots on the pages.

"I really can't stand you," said England, having moved onto the bed in the darkness of the unlit room, only illuminated by a sliver of light from the front room and the door.

"And yet you come up to my house to pay a visit and sleep with me. It's good, though, I can't stand you either."

"I wouldn't want to be rude," said England, who was making other noises in between his words, "You did give me tea and a place to hang my coat."

**Author's Note:**

> jacques le fataliste et son maître is an old french novel by denis diderot - it's very funny and weird and i recommend it to anyone who likes philosophy. 
> 
> the channel tunnel opened in '94 and is literally a tunnel that goes under the english channel (or la manche in french). there had been several earlier attempts at building one, but all failed. the original idea was proposed in 1803 by a frenchman, which is why france is being a lil bitch about this. 
> 
> i'm not about to try and explain the entire falklands war in a note on a fanfic, because i love myself. suffice to say france was not directly involved - they openly supported the british - but aided both sides (british and argentine) during the conflict.
> 
> maggie thatcher and françois mitterrand - thatcher was a conservative, mitterrand was a socialist. it's more complicated than that, really, but i'm not getting into it.


End file.
